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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22521724">A Look of Agony</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Withstarryeyes/pseuds/Withstarryeyes'>Withstarryeyes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blindness, Ciri and Yennefer make appearances here and there, Cool Uncle!Jaskier, Curses, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fainting, Fever, Gen, Geralt goes Blind, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Guilt Geralt, Hallucinations, Heat Stroke, Hurt, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier Panics, Medical Procedures, Middle of the Road Adventures, Migraine, Protective Jaskier, Seizures, Sick Fic, Sick Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Temporary Blindness, Witches, Worried Geralt, Yennefer is a convenient plot device, dad!Geralt, dislocated arm, dislocation, heat exhaustion, injured, injured jaskier, protective Geralt, sick jaskier, venom - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 09:00:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,907</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22521724</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Withstarryeyes/pseuds/Withstarryeyes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of sick/hurt Jaskier and Geralt from my tumblr.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia &amp; Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>106</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>850</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. A Fever Gone Unnoticed (Sick Geralt)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Shall we stop in the village on the way to Dayreign?” Jaskier asks into the relative silence. Geralt’s been quiet all day. Not Jaskier’s kind of quiet, where there’s still a little idle chitchat and one-word replies, but Geralt’s kind of quiet, where the only noise is the crunching of leaves under Roach’s hooves and the light thump of Jaskier’s lute bumping off of his back as he walks. </p>
<p>They’re half a day away from Dayreign and the sky is already a wine-red, singing its lullaby as night threatens to overrun her. They have an hour of daylight left, maybe two. Geralt doesn’t answer and Jaskier heaves a dramatic sigh. </p>
<p>He’s tired and thirsty, and just wants a cool mug of mead and a bed to sleep on that isn’t made of wood. “Please, Geralt. We need to stop. It’s getting dark.”</p>
<p>“No,” Geralt says, clearing his throat. Undermining him, Roach slows, whining. </p>
<p>“Seems Roach would like a rest as well,” Jaskier smiles, going to run his hand down the horse’s pelt when she kicks back at him. He dodges, whistling lowly. “Easy girl, that’s it.”</p>
<p>Geralt hasn’t gotten off of Roach so Jaskier winds his way to her front and looks into Geralt’s face. He hasn’t seen it all day, as they’ve been wandering since sunrise and Geralt hadn’t stopped for water or rest. Jaskier drank as he tried to keep up, and hummed to keep his mind off his aching feet. Now that he’s stopped he feels the want for food, rest, and shelter lap at him like the tide. </p>
<p>“Fine,” Geralt huffs, and gets off of Roach, holding her reigns. They weave off of the wooded path to a bricked lane and Jaskier can smell the ale from the local tavern. His stomach rumbles. </p>
<p>When they enter, the townfolk murmur but don’t engage. Geralt must be glowering, Jaskier presumes, because it’s the only time that he doesn’t get addressed once by a single civilian. Jaskier can’t say he complains as he orders a turkey leg and a pint of honey wine. </p>
<p>“One bed or two?” A lovely woman asks, her hair in a bun behind her head. Her skin is fair and freckled, and her hair is a deep auburn.</p>
<p>“One please,” Jaskier says, knowing that its been a few days since the Witcher’s last coin had come their way. He turns to Geralt, expecting the pouch to be outstretched in a single gloved hand but instead, Geralt is slumped over the counter, his head resting on his arms. </p>
<p>“One moment,” he says to the woman and scurries over to Geralt. He puts a hand on his shoulder, feeling the muscle under there braid, tightening. “Geralt?”</p>
<p>“I’m fucking tired, get us a room,” he snaps and Jaskier reels back at the tone. He fumbles for the coin purse and gets the room, requesting his meal to be sent up. Geralt is in front of him, moving up the stairs to their accommodations before Jaskier has finished paying. </p>
<p>He’s acting odd, odder than usual and in a way Jaskier can’t place. The bath is running when Jaskier opens the room, and he eats as Geralt bathes, thinking. He’s not used to this complete silence, or Geralt’s sourer than usual attitude. He hasn’t even been particularly annoying this trip.</p>
<p>Geralt steps out dripping and Jaskier turns, catching red-rimmed eyes and a sweaty brow. How hot did they run the tub? It clicks in place when Jaskier watches Geralt get into bed and turn on his side, his eyes closed. </p>
<p>“Geralt?” He grunts and Jaskier leans closer, “Are you sick?”</p>
<p>“No,” he says, but the response sends him into hacking coughs. Jaskier lays a hand on Geralt’s brow, frowning at the heat he finds there. </p>
<p>“You are. Burning up in fact. I wonder if they have a mage.”</p>
<p>“I don’t need a mage.” Geralt is sitting up now, one hand fisted in the blanket. The movement has rendered him dizzy and Jaskier watches his eyes lose focus then snap back into clarity. He pushes him back against the wall.</p>
<p>“Yes, you do. I’m going to run down and ask the woman managing the bar if she can contact a mage.”</p>
<p>Geralt lets out a stream of coughs, his lips tinged blue by the end of the run. “I’ll get some tea too.”</p>
<p>“I’m fine.” </p>
<p>“You’re not!” Jaskier demands, upset. “You’re sick, frighteningly so. You’re not invincible you know. And what would happen to me if you just keeled over, huh?”</p>
<p>“Can’t make coin on a dead witcher?”</p>
<p>Jaskier frowns and crosses his arms. “Can’t call you a friend either. I willingly watch you beat down beast week after week,</p>
<p>“Jaskier--”</p>
<p>“-- knowing that one day you might not win...</p>
<p>“Jaskier!”</p>
<p>“But I refuse to let illness take you down.”</p>
<p>“<em>Jaskier,” </em>Geralt has his arms around him now, the heat causing Jaskier to sweat. </p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“I’ll be okay. But if it will make you feel better you may fetch a mage.” He drops his head onto Geralt’s shoulder, his eyes mysteriously wet. He clears his throat, picking at his hands. </p>
<p>“Yes, well, then I shall. And this will make a great song, someday you know.”</p>
<p>Geralt groans. Jaskier takes that as a sign he’s going to live. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Migraine (Jaskier)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt was made for witching. He completed the trials, he shut himself off to a solo life of killing and sleeping and eating, and occasionally, paying a young prostitute to do him a deed. He knows how to analyze a battle, to be aware of the other person’s move before they enact it. It doesn’t always work, per se, but Geralt is still alive and that has to speak for something. He’s observant at the very least, militant at the most, but he never accounted for the fact that he wasn’t taught to be social. </p><p>He knows a few things–how to spot when someone is in pain, or tired, or vulnerable. If a person is starving, or dehydrated, or mortally wounded. He knows how the skin looks when it’s been fed a diet of poison-laced blood, and what a wound looks like when it isn’t going to clot. He knows when a person has died, and usually how recent. </p><p>But he doesn’t know why a person is happy, or scared, or sad. He can guess, sometimes, depending on how he’s felt in those situations. But he’s a witcher, and he can’t always accurately predict a human’s intentions. </p><p>For that reason, he didn’t see this coming. This being Jaskier, after a day of complaining about everything–the sun, the heat, Geralt’s body odor, the way Roach’s hooves loudly slap the ground– slumps soundlessly, without so much of a whimper, into a stack of limp limbs and pallid skin. </p><p>He knew something was wrong, or at least he does now, in hindsight. There was that nervous prickle at the back of his neck, nagging him. Telling him that something was going to go wrong. And of course, Jaskier had told him. He’d said that he’d been in pain, that he was tired, that he was nauseous, and that he shouldn’t be following a man who didn’t tire easily, or eat often, or sleep consistently. Geralt swallows back a hot mass of guilt, remembering that he’d thought Jaskier had just been hungover. </p><p>But this isn’t hungover and Geralt doesn’t know what’s wrong. He kneels next to Jaskier, his breath stalled, as he looks for the steady rise of his chest. He’s breathing, and Geralt lets out more worry than he thought he was even capable of carrying. He flips Jaskier on his back, and taps his cheek, watching as Jaskier’s eyes flutter under their lids. </p><p>His eyelashes obscure most of the silver in his pupils and Geralt feels the panic pry deeper into him as Jaskier slams them closed with a pitiful moan. </p><p>“Geralt,” he whines and Geralt puts a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. </p><p>“We’ll get you help,” he says, trying to be comforting without knowing how. </p><p>“I’m fine,” Jaskier tries to stand and Geralt pushes him deeper in the dirt. “Gods, you’re strong,” he says at the same time Geralt growls, “Stay.”</p><p>Lines of pain are etched deep into Jaskier’s face, detailing the little wrinkles by his eyes, and the smile lines around his mouth. </p><p>“You’re in pain.” </p><p>Jaskier cracks a mirthless smile, “I’ve been in pain all day. Letting me up won’t kill me.”</p><p>Geralt feels the guilt slip into the small cracks made by his panic. He takes a deep breath, shaky to his own ears. He knows Jaskier won’t notice. “You’re not a healer.”</p><p>“Neither are you!” Jaskier points out. Geralt feels sufficiently chastised. </p><p>“What’s wrong with you then.”</p><p>Jaskier opens his eyes, the sun blocked by Geralt’s wide back. “My head hurts.”</p><p>Geralt’s brow bends to meet in the middle of his forehead. </p><p>“I get migraines sometimes. Usually, I can push through them. I was wrong.”</p><p>“Why didn’t you tell me,” Geralt says, his voice low. It comes out angry because he’s mad that he didn’t notice sooner. That Jaskier had been in pain and had kept going because Geralt doesn’t slow down for humans. A voice in his head reminds Geralt that Jaskier isn’t just a human, he’s a friend. </p><p>Jaskier jolts a little at the tone and Geralt bends his head, aching. “I didn’t mean,” he lets out a pained sigh, and sits back, letting the sun fall back into Jaskier’s face. He whines and Geralt growls. “I should’ve noticed. But when I didn’t, why didn’t you say something?”</p><p>Jaskier shrugs, “I could keep up. I always do.”</p><p>Yes, Geralt thinks, he does. But maybe he shouldn’t have to. </p><p>“There’s a village a quarter-day from here. You can ride Roach. We can stay the night, get you looked after by a mage.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Jaskier says. </p><p>Geralt doesn’t answer.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Heatstroke (Jaskier)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A vulture circles ahead. Roach, a rider on her back, treads steadily on. In the thicket of trees, Jaskier sees a crystal clear pond, shimmering. The sun beats down the back of his neck, sending sweat pumping down his back, sticking the patch where his lute meets his shirt. </p><p>Geralt doesn’t notice. Jaskier swallows thickly, stumbling. They’ve been walking for hours now. Jaskier is used to it, sure, he’s no stranger to the almost militant way Geralt travels. The way Geralt rarely stops for food, or water, or rest. The way he’ll make a damp ground his bedroll, while Jaskier hunts for some leaves to build a nest and shivers in the dark hours of the night. But it’s the middle of the summer and the heat is thick, humid, dragging it’s sticky fingers down Jaskier’s throat and stealing the air from his lungs. He wants a break, nay, needs one, and he wants to dip into that pond. Feel the water soothe his burned skin, wash the salt and grime from his body, and hydrate him from the outside in. </p><p>“Geralt?”</p><p>“Hmm,” Roach slows but doesn’t stop. </p><p>“May we please take a break? There’s a pond in the woods and I want to drench myself in it.”</p><p>A turn of the head, yellow eyes staring at him. A beat, then, Geralt swings his legs over Roach and steps down. His chest is coated in sweat, glistening in the sun. He’d removed the top part of his armor a few hours ago, and it’s the first time Jaskier has ever seen him be a little…human. </p><p>“I suppose we could have lunch here. If you need to.”</p><p>Jaskier lets his legs melt into the grass, debating with himself on whether or not to take off his shirt. The part of his brain that is swirling in the heat wins and he pulls it over, brushing the mass of sweaty-hair on the top of his head forward. </p><p>Geralt brains him with an orange while he builds a fire. Jaskier groans. “You can’t possibly be cold,” Jaskier says, trying to get his neurons to fire in synch long enough for his fingers to puncture this orange. </p><p>“Unless you want to eat raw fish, I’m afraid I’ll have to build a fire.”</p><p>Alarmingly and all at once, the ground tilts and Jaskier drops the orange, flung toward the dirt. Geralt cries out at him, and grabs his shoulder, closer than Jaskier realized before. </p><p>“What happened? What’s wrong?” Geralt growls, his other hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His gaze flashes to the treeline, scanning for any rustling of leaves or snapping of twigs. </p><p>“I’m fine,” Jaskier gasps, feeling hot and cold and tingly. “I got dizzy.”</p><p>Geralt’s posture slumps, ever so slightly, and Jaskier can feel the tension seep out in the way Geralt’s hand slackens. But then the yellow gaze is on Jaskier’s face, and his hand is moving to his forehead. </p><p>“You aren’t sweating. Why aren’t you sweating?”</p><p>Jaskier shrugs, rooting around for that orange he dropped. It’s rolled to the edge of the pond and Jaskier stands to fetch it. The world bursts into a swirl of blues and greens, and he feels himself fall back into a strong chest, hair brushing against his cheek. </p><p>“Christ, Jaskier, you’re boiling.” Jaskier’s cheek is on Geralt’s chest, the witcher’s arm wrapped around his back. His mind winds back to the orange, sweet and cool against his tongue. </p><p>“Mmpf, orange,” he mumbles, and then passes out. </p><p>He wakes up in a haze of cool water and strong arms, naked and dripping in the bank of the pond. Geralt is using a cupped hand to pour water over Jaskier’s head as he calls for help and curses under his breath. Jaskier opens his eyes and the sky is a deeper blue. Not quite evening but reaching it. He feels dry, and hot. Achy and tired. But not nearly as bad as before. He rolls his eyes up to Geralt’s face and sees the pure stress painted there. </p><p>“What happened?”</p><p>“You got heatstroke and didn’t think to tell me,” Geralt huffs, sounding angry. Jaskier winces when the fruit is placed into his hands. The orange, peeled for him. </p><p>Still in the pond, the wind from the night picks up, rippling across his body. Goosebumps raise on his arms. He bites into the orange, feeling blessed cool rush over him. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Seizures (Geralt)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt is so quiet in every aspect of life that Jaskier doesn’t expect him to be the one to break the silence of the late morning. He doesn’t expect to hear a slight gurgle, a hiss of air pressed between clenched teeth or a loud thump. He especially doesn’t expect all of those noises to come from Geralt, on the ground, muscles tightly wound so that his arms stick in ninety-degree angles from his body. </p><p>He begins to jerk and Jaskier thinks the world has ended. He’s heard about this, the convulsions. How they’re supposedly the sign of a devil. Of a possession. But Jaskier has been friends with Geralt for several steady years now and he’s pried as much information about the occult as he can from a practically mute companion. He’s not even sure Geralt can get possessed, and certainly not from an entity that doesn’t exist. </p><p>Geralt’s head bounces off of the dirt, a thin line of spit and blood spilling out onto his bottom chin. It startles Jaskier into clumsy action, and he creeps forward, rolling Geralt on his side. He doesn’t know what to do, other than hold his hand here and curse the heavens. The convulsions don’t stop. Geralt jerks and jerks and jerks. Noises escaping him like a soul out of hell. Spit continues to bubble and spill out. </p><p>They’re surrounded by trees and a brook. The last town over a day away. They’d camped overnight and they’re so far from a kingdom that Geralt hasn’t even warned Jaskier about the potential for bandits. He’s on his own here. Jaskier just has to wait it out. </p><p>It winds down after a few more moments. The jerking slowing to small tremors, eventually to limp limbs. Jaskier thinks, surely, this would have killed a human, and maybe a witcher. In fact, the only reason he knows Geralt is alive is that his chest is heaving. Snore-like breaths erupting out of his nose and mouth.</p><p>What caused this? Jaskier can’t even begin to guess. They’d both had water and berries and nuts for breakfast. Geralt isn’t sick with fever, nor showing any symptoms of poisoning. He’s at a loss. Geralt isn’t waking up and the fear curdles into a solid mass in his stomach. </p><p>“Geralt, please,” Jaskier says, his voice cracking. He fumbles in Geralt’s saddlebag for some water. On his side, Geralt heaves and vomit pools around him. </p><p>Jaskier wipes it with a clean cloth. Geralt stirs.</p><p>“Have some water,” Jaskier says when Geralt opens his eyes. He seems tired and groggy and Jaskier is surprised when he sees clarity fill the yellow irises. </p><p>“Jaskier?”</p><p>“You had a fit. Drink some water.”</p><p>Geralt swings his head around, looking at the trees, the sky, his hands. He must be sore, Jaskier is thinking, with the way he’d twisted on the ground. </p><p>“I… what?”</p><p>Jaskier presses the whole bottle into Geralt’s hands. They’d stopped for lunch. Jaskier is thankful for that, as Roach is tied up. They’d been about to forage for some food when Geralt collapses. Jaskier isn’t as grateful for that. He lets Geralt take some water and regain his bearings. After, he seems to be more lucid. </p><p>“I had a fit, you said?”</p><p>“Just fell over,” Jaskier whispers, cursing himself for how scared it comes out. Geralt looks embarrassed, trying to stand. He can’t quite get his feet under him. </p><p>“Where are you going?”</p><p>“We were looking for food were we not?”</p><p>Jaskier remembers a time when he’d asked Geralt if he’d lost his marbles, quite emphatically. He feels like doing it again. Only the fear and guilt keeps him from shouting.</p><p>“You’re not going anywhere after that. I have half a mind to go looking for a mage.”</p><p>Geralt huffs, sitting now. He stares at Jaskier, his jaw clenched. “Do you know what happens at Kaer Morhen?”</p><p>Jaskier sucks in a breath, “The trials?”</p><p>Geralt shifts. He moves his eyes to the sky, a hawk circling above. “I went through more than most. It made me…tougher. Enhanced.”</p><p>Jaskier doesn’t interrupt. Roach has settled in her spot. Grazing for some tendrils of grass she can uproot.</p><p>“Occasionally, I’ll have a fit. One of the trials left me damaged in this way. They don’t happen often and they never impact my ability to be a witcher.”</p><p>“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier says, because he’s horrified and scared and doesn’t know how to reply. </p><p>“I’ll be fine,” Geralt says, and Jaskier doesn’t argue. There’s no protocol for this. And even if there were, Jaskier isn’t sure Geralt would appreciate him following it. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Envenomate (Jaskier)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There are monsters and there is coin, rarely is there both. Jaskier spins this through his mind as they walk, spiraling up the side of a mountain to its forest-covered top. Three days ago, Geralt had been tasked to find and kill a Wyvern that had been attacking a small village, taking children and sheep back with it to feed. Jaskier has never seen a Wyvern or a dragon for that matter. Wyverns are smaller and they don’t breathe fire. The thought makes him feel better, even as Geralt slows. </p><p>The day is bleeding into a cool misty night, and Jaskier supposes this is where they will stop to rest. A cave is built into the side of the mountain, a large rock jutting across, giving them space to set up a fire close to the mouth of the cave but far enough for it to be ventilated. His legs ache and he rolls his shoulders, the tendons bunched into a tight knot. Geralt pulls out two cuts of trout, salt-cured, and sets to making a fire. Jaskier settles on the ground, back to the cave, trying to reckon with the idea of seeing a Wyvern and that Wyvern attacking his companion. </p><p>Geralt is nothing if not able, but Jaskier has seen him cut it close with several creatures. He’s often wondered what he would do if Geralt died and left him there. Perish, he thinks first, if Geralt hadn’t managed to off the creature. He fiddles with his lute and strums a few times, a soft hum buzzing in his throat. He’s never asked Geralt if there is anything he’d want to be done post-mortem. Any acquaintances to be checked upon. Any particular buyers for Roach. He fears asking in the likely event that Geralt will play it off, as if death isn’t anything special. </p><p>He knows how Geralt would think Jaskier would spend his time without him. Playing his lute from bar to bar, a song on Geralt’s life and final battle. He coughs against the tickle of tears at that thought and lets out a mirthless laugh. As if he could face playing ever again in that case. </p><p>The fire comes alight in a flicker, Geralt blowing it into a rolling ball, eating up the small sticks stacked upon the nest of kindling. Jaskier stands and sits by it. </p><p>“I can tend to it for a bit, if you’d like,” Jaskier offers, gripping a slender, pointed stick and smiling up at the witcher. Geralt’s yellow eyes stall on him. </p><p>“Why would I want that?”</p><p>“Well, you could save your strength for once. Rest a little, let the bard work. After all, you’re fighting a dragon tomorrow.”</p><p>Geralt grunts under his breath and stalks off to deal with Roach. Rationing out a bowl of water and an apple for the horse’s dinner. Jaskier sighs a breath of relief. He pokes at the fire, watching ash fly up into the sky, illuminated by the red-cast sunlight. </p><p>He’s beginning to feel quite warm and he strips off his jacket, running a hand through his hair. On the salt block, the fish is cooking quite rapidly and he flips it, listening to it sizzle. Behind him, he hears a rustle and a few rocks tumble. He startles and spins, catching the attention of Geralt. His hand is on the strap of his sheath, readying to pull it forward and let the sword glide into his open hand if needed. The cave seems to settle, its contents buried in a mist of shadow. </p><p>The fish begins to smoke and Jaskier curses, pulling it off the salt block onto a towel and taking a knife to scrape off the charred scales. Geralt joins him but keeps his back from facing the cave. </p><p>“Probably just a bear, right Geralt?”</p><p>“There are no bears here,” he says, but doesn’t elaborate before digging into the fish. </p><p>Jaskier pales and hides his shaking hands. “Lovely.”</p><p>He’s awoken by Geralt’s hand on his shoulder, his brows furrowed and his eyes uncharacteristically worried. “We’re moving. Pack up.”</p><p>Sleep is still a sticky film on his mind and Jaskier yawns, trying to register the words. He stumbles to standing and yawns again, flattening a dirty palm over his mouth. Curled in one hand is his bedroll. Geralt is already moving, packing up his own bedroll–unused– and telling Roach to return to the village and wait for them to return. </p><p>“We’re going back?” Jaskier asks, frowning. His stomach grumbles, reminding him that they’re running low on food and funds. That fish was meant to feed one person, not a human and a Witcher. Not that Geralt ate all that much. </p><p>“You are,” Geralt says, taking Jaskier’s bedroll from him.</p><p>“And how will I get there? You’re not serious in letting me ride your horse are you?”</p><p>Geralt’s eyes flash dangerously but his shoulders slump. “This cave is connected to several others through the mountain. Which means–”</p><p>“The Wyvern can attack us at any point of our journey,” Jaskier finishes, eyeing the opening to the cave. He doesn’t want to go, to leave Geralt out here alone. He doesn’t want to think about what he would do if Geralt didn’t come back. </p><p>Geralt nods and shoves Jaskier toward Roach. She backs up, protesting, but Geralt calms her using a sign and stares at her. She settles and Jaskier knows he’ll be able to mount her. </p><p>His stomach flips. “I’m not leaving you,” he says. Geralt bares his teeth. Jaskier plows forward, “I’m not leaving you. I’m your companion. Half our journeys are dangerous. I’m not going to abandon this once in the minor chance that I’ll get injured.”</p><p>“What about killed?” Geralt challenges. Behind him, smoke billows into the air from the extinguished fire. </p><p>“I’ve accepted death a long time ago,” Jaskier says. </p><p>Geralt, for once, doesn’t fight him. Roach is sent to wait farther down the mountain. At the camp they’d occupied just a day prior. Jaskier and Geralt continue their climb under the guise of night. Jaskier doesn’t sing and Geralt doesn’t talk. The Wyvern circles both their minds, chasing away any semblence of exhaustion. </p><p>They’re nearing the peak when Geralt stops, motioning for Jaskier to get behind him. In front is a thicket of trees, thick and dense, through which a cave opening is evident. It’s at least thirty feet wide and so deep even the shallowest corners in the front shine an opaque onyx. </p><p>The ground rumbles and Jaskier can hear deep breathing. Then the largest animal Jaskier has ever seen peaks its monstrous head out of the cave, sniffing at the air. Its eyes are a shining Honeycrisp gold and its scales shift between navy and emerald. Jaskier would think it was quite beautiful if not for the tacky trace of blood on surrounding its mouth and staining its long, thick claws. </p><p>“What do I do if it comes near me?” Jaskier asks Geralt from behind. The witcher looks over his shoulder and fixes Jaskier with a wry stare. </p><p>“Dodge.”</p><p>Jaskier can’t do much as Geralt charges into the fight but watch the graceful dance between beast and witcher. He can understand the comparisons now. A monster created to kill monsters. Geralt is power personified. A sword cutting through the thick hide of the Wyvern, his eyes stained black by one of his potions, and his hands shaking from the strain of his muscles. He hits the Wyvern twice behind its shoulder when it turns unexpectedly, whipping its tail around. </p><p>Neither Geralt nor Jaskier had planned for that. Geralt goes flying into a tree, slumping at the bottom. Jaskier has a second to worry about him, to worry that he’s going to be brained into oblivion before the same tail sweeps him off his feet. He stumbles rather than flies and lands on his face, a deep gash in his thigh from one of the Wyvern’s spikes. He coughs and sits up, scanning for Geralt’s unconscious body. But he’s standing, wavering a little, but standing, his sword up in one hand. Jaskier falls into a heap, feeling shaky and tired. </p><p>The forest begins to melt before his eyes. The Wyvern tilting into larger and smaller versions of itself. Jaskier feels himself burning, then ice-cold, then number than death itself. Worryingly, he can’t hear anything, and his mind is like a faulty tape, spraying static across his mind whenever he tries to recall where he is and when. </p><p>Then Geralt is in front of him, dripping in blood, heaving in air like his life depends on it. He wipes his hand on the grass and places Jaskier’s chin in his large palm. Jaskier swings his eyes to the yellow irises, black still shadowing the very edge of his eyes. </p><p>“Jaskier? Can you hear me?”</p><p>He hums, his head throbbing and a metallic taste blooming across his tongue. He falls, limp, into Geralt’s chest and he feels the deep “fuck” thrum through his body.</p><p>He wonders, briefly, if the Wyvern is still alive when he hears wings, heavy, above him. “You have to move.”</p><p>His brain latches onto the words and the meaning but his limbs are useless beneath him. He rolls his face into Geralt’s neck and breathes in, his hands tingling. “Jaskier, please. You can fight the venom, but you have to move.”</p><p>He’s never heard Geralt plead with him before, nor his name so obvious laced with panic. It kicks him into action and he pulls himself up with Geralt’s help. His legs are a mess, shaking and bending with each step he takes. But once he’s established a rhythm he can move. “Go to the cave’s entrance but stay to the sides. I’m going to draw her out.”</p><p>Jaskier feels like he’s on fire, like he’s engulfed. He slams his hand onto Geralt’s shoulder, slurring horribly, “You have to put out the fire first.”</p><p>Geralt looks confused for a moment, biting the glove, on one hand, to remove it and pressing his palm to Jaskier’s forehead. The guilt and panic increase tenfold in his eyes and Jaskier whimpers. “I’m so hot, please Geralt. Make it stop.”</p><p>Geralt winces. The Wyvern laps them above, ducking ever closer to the ground. “It’s just the venom. It’s causing a fever.</p><p>“Oh,” Jaskier says. </p><p>Geralt sighs, and says, “Go to the cave, just until its safe,” a little insistently. </p><p>Jaskier listens. The stone is cool against his back and he lets his aching legs go from under him. He lands on his side, an arm under him, the other limp at his side. He tilts his head so he isn’t breathing in the dirt, and shuts his eyes against the dizziness. The metallic taste collects in the space behind his molars, seeping into his cheeks and he groans, feeling nauseous. Before he can throw up, however, he drifts into a dreamless sleep. </p><p>The next hour passes in glimpses. Geralt fighting a beast larger than a city, its teeth dripping with saliva and blood. Geralt slumped against a tree dead. Geralt, miraculously alive a few seconds later, prompting Jaskier to move. Puking behind a bush, then slumping into a heap on the ground. Gaskier’s hair covered in blood and dirt, his sword behind his back. Geralt shushing him, soothing him, urging him toward the mountain. Telling him they’ll get help, if only Jaskier will fight long enough for them to find a mage. </p><p>By the time Jaskier’s coherent, dry and clean in a foreign bed, he’s convinced he hallucinated the caring part of Geralt. That it was some dream of his to keep him alive past the fever. </p><p>Geralt is no longer covered in muck. His hair a pristine white from Jaskier’s vantage point, Geralt leans toward the window, watching out onto the square. Jaskier shifts, sitting up, and Geralt turns, quicker than any human would. It’s in those movements that Jaskier sees Geralt for what he is. It’s in moments like today that Jaskier is also glad for who Geralt is. He’s sure if Geralt was human, they’d both be dead. </p><p>Jaskier’s head swims at the moment and Geralt is suddenly at his side, holding a tankard of water. He presses his hand to Jaskier’s forehead, surprisingly gentle and Jaskier swallows against a dry throat. “I presume you bested it?” </p><p>Geralt turns a confused gaze at him, clearly wondering if the bard is still delirious with toxin. “The Wyvern? You killed it?” Jaskier sips at the water. </p><p>Geralt leans back, a sigh echoing out of his chest. “Yes.”</p><p>“You could be a bit more joyous then,” Jaskier jests. Geralt crosses his arms.</p><p>“You’ve been out for days.”</p><p>Not a dream, then, Jaskier thinks. It dawns on him then, in this room where there is a single bed and Jaskier is the one occupying it, and the way Geralt is clearly restless, exhausted where he sits, that Jaskier is not the only one wondering what he would do if his companion died. </p><p>He wants to comfort Geralt but knows it will be unwelcome. He can’t thank him either, so he settles for putting down his cup of water and turning to Geralt, searching his eyes. “When do we move out?”</p><p>Geralt stiffens. For the first time, Jaskier realizes too, that witchers may not be human but they feel just as well. “In the morning. Roach needs another night of rest.”</p><p>Jaskier feels his mouth twitch upwards. “Well, of course. Tomorrow then.”</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Infection and Chest Cold (Geralt and Jaskier)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s been raining for days. Geralt’s skin is a damp, wrinkled mess, pulling at the ragged line that arcs across his back from the bandits he’d fought off just half a week ago. He can’t tell how bad it is, just that it’s infected, and he’s hesitant to let Jaskier see. He doesn’t do well with touch. Soft hands on his back, tending to his wounds. Maybe he was born that way, but Geralt remembers being a kid, his mother carding her fingers through his hair. It’s the trials, he thinks.  His mother, dropping him off in the middle of nowhere, forced to stumble and starve and survive. Find the temple on his own, drenched in sweat and dehydrated to the point of hallucinating. </p><p>Years passing, his childhood and his teens a constant montage of steel and leather. Blood, sweat, and tears–always shed in private. Emotion beat out of them. Unsurprising was the lack of physical contact. It makes him uneasy unless it serves as sex, and even then it makes his skin itch after. Crawling with the foreign fingerprints, skittering like beetles. Jaskier, he knows, can’t get enough of it. He’s seen enough drunken nights to know that Jaskier will sit in anyone’s lap not occupied by something else. He presses his face to others, singing, and hugs strangers in pubs. He sleeps with noble wives and makes friends with the innkeepers whose residence they take hold of for a few days. </p><p>Jaskier is everything Geralt isn’t, everything that wasn’t beaten out of him, everything that would kill him before the monster ever could. The next town is a pinprick in the distance and Geralt thinks it’ll be another hour, maybe two. Jaskier is trailing behind him, his hair damp, his clothes soaking. Geralt wishes he could let Jaskier on the horse, give his wilting feet a rest. But the thought of Jaskier pressed against his back, flat against his wound sets his teeth on edge. He’ll have to survive until they reach the next town. There, Geralt can sleep. He hopes this will cure the infection. He can feel the fever from it, tight and arching across the back of his neck and in the crook of his elbows. The rain doesn’t help his aching joints or the blistering heat of the fever. </p><p>He knows this city and its merchants. They’re a blissfully congenial bunch. When they pass the gates he drives Roach to the town stables, handing her off to the stablemen there. She’ll be in good hands, out of this rain and the cold and Geralt can handle the walk across the square. Jaskier is talking behind him, bewildered that these people seem to know Geralt and that they like him. Geralt grunts in response and winds his way to the tavern, pushing the door in. At high noon, few patrons litter the small tavern, and he makes his way to the bar. </p><p>“Well if it isn’t Geralt of Rivia, back to pay his dues,” she greets warmly. “Finally got yourself a companion did you? I always thought you should have some company on those excursions of yours.”</p><p>Geralt glowers and Jaskier’s eyes blow wide when the tender doesn’t so much at flinch at the face. “You know Geralt?”</p><p>“Know him? Why, he killed his very first monster in our wheat field. Tiny little thing at the time, for a witcher mind you.”</p><p>“A room please,” Geralt says, his back beginning to burn. His eyes are itching now, dry from the lack of sleep. He’s used to a few hours in a week, maybe more if there’s little work. But the fever has obliterated his reserves and he feels the need to rest. </p><p>Jaskier mutters something behind Geralt’s back. Conspiring with the tender no doubt. A deep, hacking sound follows and Geralt pins his gaze on Jaskier. Water is dripping off of his clothes as he coughs, his elbow around his mouth. The tender gasps and goes into the back, returning with a blanket to hand him. Jaskier shakes his head but keeps coughing and Geralt wonders how he hasn’t become lightheaded. He strokes a palm down Jaskier’s back, the feeling creeping along his skin, but it works and Jaskier’s coughs taper off. </p><p>“Sorry,” he sputters, his voice a wreck. Geralt watches him with pursed lips, eyebrows furrowed. He’s heard that sound before, in the villages ravaged by disease and pneumonia. A sound like the tolling bell and Geralt’s mind provides him the image of a pale Jaskier, expired from disease. His eyes glassy and rolled skyward, his hands limp. </p><p>“I’m fine, just a tickle. Must be the rain,” Jaskier keeps talking, nervous from Geralt’s gaze. He stops staring and takes the blanket from the tender, nodding at her. They follow her to the room, up two flights of stairs and at the back of a long hallway. A room that Geralt has called home more than once, in between his bouts of poverty when he was starting out. It’s a dance they play, Geralt pretending like he doesn’t care. The tender doting on him. He never pays and she doesn’t ask him to. </p><p>She helps Geralt settle Jaskier into a bed and shucks off his wet clothes. “I’m sure I’ve got something laying around for you to wear while these dry.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t want to cause any trouble,” Jaskier says, words crackling like kindling. Geralt sits on his own bed, feeling helpless. He removes his armor, the leather stuck to his sweating skin. For a moment he’d forgotten about his own fever but it comes back tenfold on this cot, the air condensing around him, bubbling him into a humid cloud. He leans back when his vision goes spotty, balancing himself. </p><p>Jaskier has dressed again when his vision comes back. A cup of cooling tea on the nightstand beside him. Jaskier’s hands are wrapped around his own. “How are you feeling?” Geralt asks, feeling distant and wrong himself. </p><p>Jaskier makes a noncommittal bob with his head. “I’ll live.”</p><p>Geralt doesn’t comment and takes a sip of his own tea, abandoning it when a wave of heat passes over him, making him feel faint. He lays back on the bed and shuts his eyes. In the next moment, he’s asleep. </p><p>Jaskier’s coughs wake him. Deep and rumbling, stuck deep in the bard’s chest. They come out like barks and Geralt bolts upward, awake. The sun is setting outside, worrying Geralt. He’s been asleep for too long, groggy and tired and still burning up. He’ll be fine, he thinks. He’s a witcher. He’s been through worse. Jaskier’s continued coughs bring Geralt out of his thoughts and he stands, catching himself on the nightstand when his legs threaten not to hold his weight and stumbles over. </p><p>“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Jaskier chokes out and Geralt shakes his head. He lights a candle and watches the flame paint Jaskier’s cheeks pink. He lays a hand on the bard’s forehead, but it feels cool. </p><p>Jaskier can tell that something’s wrong and he wraps a hand around Geralt’s arm. “You’re warm,” he accuses. His blue eyes are locked onto Geralt’s face. The flushed tint to his cheeks, the slight pink in the whites of his eyes. </p><p>“Are you ill?” </p><p>Geralt shakes his head, rolling his shoulders and wincing when it pulls on the scrape across his back. He hasn’t looked at it yet but he can feel the swelling, hot and tight against his shirt. Jaskier frowns. “You’re in pain.”</p><p>“I’m okay,” Geralt growls, but his vision begins to waver and he sits harshly on the bed. </p><p>He’s exposed his back and Jaskier sucks in a gasp, his hands feather-light against the skin there. Geralt bristles, feeling goosebumps erupt over his body. </p><p>“This is infected. How long have you left this to rot?”</p><p>“It’ll heal on its own, I just need to rest.” Geralt doesn’t mention that it should’ve healed a little while he slept through the afternoon. That it may be too far gone for him to deal with on his own. Jaskier doesn’t need this information, however, because he’s standing and heading for the door. </p><p>“Jaskier!” Geralt calls after him, but it doesn’t carry over. He’s feeling weak again, far too hot and a little lightheaded. Jaskier is back lightning-quick and Geralt is beginning to think something is wrong. </p><p>The tender is there, helping Jaskier flip him over. He winces and tries to pull his limbs out of their grasp, the fever making his skin ever more sensitive. He moans and Jaskier lets out a quiet gasp, tinged with the beginning of a sob.</p><p>They pump him with tea and medicine, wrap him up in Jaskier’s bed instead of moving him. Geralt watches Jaskier as he moves, stopping to cough into his elbow, wavering when he straightens. He catches the bartender by her elbow and nods at Jaskier. “I’m fine. You two should rest.”</p><p>“Of course,” she says, tucking Jaskier into the other cot. </p><p>“I’ll check on you in the morning.” </p><p>The sky is deep indigo when she leaves and Geralt rolls on his side, Jaskier in his line of sight. He doesn’t look too bad. He’s not flushed with fever, nor painstakingly pale. He looks tired, cold, and congested. But he’s not going to die.</p><p>Jaskier, sensing this, speaks. “I didn’t know you had a dedicated support system. She’s nice, I’m glad I got to meet her.” </p><p>Geralt nods, his face scraping his cool pillow. He shuts his eyes, for a moment, but drags them back open. “She’s family.”</p><p>Jaskier is fingering his blanket, picking at the threads. He takes a deep breath, then, looks openly in Geralt’s face. “Must be nice.”</p><p>Geralt frowns, sensing something in the bard. “You’re family too, Jaskier. If you want to be.”</p><p>He smiles, chuckling a little. “Geralt, you absolute softie.”</p><p>Geralt throws his pillow at the bard, letting it smash into his face, and retires for the night. Facing away from Jaskier, he allows himself a small smile.</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Dislocated (Jaskier)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt feels his heart stop when Jaskier stops talking mid-sentence. They’ve known each other for several long years and Geralt has gotten used to the long-winded way that Jaskier talks and hums and sings as they walk. The way that his words are punctuated by the light thwap of his lute slapping his back and the slight patter of his soft soles against the ground. He knows that Jaskier only drops off if something has happened as the years have gone by the more extraordinary and concerning those somethings have become. </p><p>Even more concerning is the change in sound from chatter to the gritty slip of feet against rock, the exhalation of air as Jaskier, Geralt finds, horrified, falls down the side of the cliff they are trailing. It’s all he can do, watch as Jaskier, his companion, his close one, his partner, slides down rock, his lute a snowball behind him, limbs hitting the earth at bad angles, a low whine arcing out of the human being catapulted down by gravity. He stops Roach harshly, her protests a whine in the air, and leaps off of the horse. He doesn’t have a plan of action, except to listen to his heart swell in his ears and pray that Jaskier is alive at the bottom of that cliff face. </p><p>He begins a slow descent, turning his worries into plans. Where to place his feet, what roots to hold onto, how many times he’s seen humans escape things that certainly bored death. It doesn’t help. He goes quicker. </p><p>Jaskier is in a heap at the bottom. Moving, Geralt thinks but then wonders if that’s just his imagination leaping to fulfill the single desire his heart yearns for. By the time he’s reached him, Geralt is surprised to find that only minutes have passed, for as strong his heart has pulsed against the thin artery along his neck and the way his hands are shaking from exertion. While Geralt’s back was turned, Jaskier has sat up. </p><p>“Jaskier,” he says, the word thin and hushed against the wind in his ears. Jaskier turns, and Geralt feels every blood vessel in his body swell at the sight of clear gray eyes widening with embarrassment upon spotting Geralt. </p><p>Jaskier is a mess. Hair a weed of thin strands and dust and little rock bits it picked up on the way down, but he isn’t bleeding and for that Geralt is grateful. </p><p>“Are you hurt?” It’s an inane question, but Geralt finds it slipping past regardless. </p><p>“I don’t know,” Jaskier says honestly, laughing at himself. “Everything’s all tingly. Adrenaline sure is a thing, huh?”</p><p>Geralt glowers, bundling up his concern and adoration into a small ball that he can store under a thick shell. “Can you move everything?”</p><p>Jaskier tries, his left arm twitching but his right staying still, limp by his side, just a fraction too long. “Arm’s out of sorts.”</p><p>“Broken?”</p><p>“Dislocated, I think.”</p><p>Geralt blows out a breath and coaxes Jaskier into standing. “How can I help?”</p><p>“Hold my hand,” Jaskier says, indicating his limp arm, “We need to sit. Pull my arm from my side up above my head while shaking it up and down.”</p><p>Geralt sits, and pulls Jaskier with him. The bard lies on his stomach and Geralt watches as he breathes, the steady rise and fall of the chest. Pain is starting to blossom, Geralt can tell, as Jaskier’s face is becoming pinched. “What if I do it wrong?”</p><p>“Better than leaving it, I suppose. Just pull, please.”</p><p>Geralt does, and the arm slips back into place. </p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Fever and Stab Wound (Jaskier and Geralt)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div class="text">
  <p>Jaskier comes to in a pool of thick sweat, drenching the sheets around him. The light in the room is dim, only a flickering candle bleeding a small halo of it across the room. He sits up, arms unusually weak beneath him and places his head in his hands. The skin is burning, hot and tight, and he swipes his thumbs across his brow, feeling the grit of salt and dirt there. In his chest, his breath catches and flows unsmoothly. He should have foreseen this, feeling the way he did this day. Stumbling across as they walked, deciding to stay in the tavern and write rather than join Geralt on his hunt, barely sipping at his ale. </p>
  <p>The candle sticks out to him, lit and bright, smoldering. He’d blown it out before he’d retired for the night. Only then does he spot the hunched over form of Geralt on the other bed. His head is tipped against the wall, his mouth open a little, snoring. In his hands is a rag, dripping wet and Jaskier can smell dirt and muck in the air. His lips pinch tight as he stands, fumbling for his footing even as he grows ever near Geralt in this tiny room. </p>
  <p>Once he’s close he can taste the coppery tang of evaporated blood on the air and the fact that Geralt, who sleeps ever lightly, hasn’t snapped his eyes open, sends a swipe of fear across his stomach. He lays a hand on the man’s shoulder, and leans in, seeing that the rag is dripping with blood, just a few inches away from a large gash. Jaskier sucks in a breath, a little whimper tailing it, and Geralt opens his eyes. </p>
  <p>Yellow and glassy, they lock onto Jaskier’s head. Geralt jerks back, knocking his head against the wall. Jaskier’s hand on his shoulder tightens. “Jesus, Geralt, why didn’t you wake me?”</p>
  <p>“It’s fine,” he grunts, but his skin is pale and now that he’s awake, his hands are trembling. </p>
  <p>Jaskier doesn’t say anything, taking the dripping cloth from Geralt’s hands and setting it aside. He peels back the armor, the slit widening to show a mass of red, bloodied skin. Geralt grits his teeth but remains silent. </p>
  <p>“I’m going to go get something for this,” Jaskier says, staring at Geralt as if to say stay awake for me, okay?</p>
  <p>For Geralt’s credit, he does, and Jaskier presses the new cloth to the wound. It’s barely bleeding at this point, the liquid thick and slow, but Jaskier waits until it stops completely before pulling back the cloth. He straightens to wet it and feels himself go hot, then cold, his lips tingling. He stills, feeling the fever that woke him awaken once again. He breathes deeply, his eyelashes fluttering against his closed lids. When he opens them, he’s relieved to see that Geralt’s own eyes are closed, and he hasn’t noticed. Jaskier taps his fingers against the man’s cheeks, and Geralt huffs but opens his eyes obediently. </p>
  <p>He cleans Geralt up and finds some thread and a needle to stitch the gash closed. Geralt complains, of course, he does, saying that it will heal on its own. That he was made to heal injuries like this. Jaskier doesn’t let up though, not even when his vision wavers as he stitches and he has to steady his hand on Geralt’s warm flesh. </p>
  <p>By the time he’s done, he’s sweating, and a little confused. Daylight is pinpricking the distance. He feels awful. He places down the needle and thread on the side table, feeling terribly unbalanced and tips off the bed, only caught by Geralt’s quick reflexes. </p>
  <p>“Jaskier?” The voice is warm, concerned. Jaskier was doing something, but it’s out of reach when he tries to think of what it was. </p>
  <p>“Geralt,” he says instead, feeling dizzy when Geralt hauls him back onto the bed. The witcher is pale and Jaskier frowns, looking down at the bloodied cloth. It comes to him then, the cloth, sutures, but just as quick it’s gone. </p>
  <p>“I don’t feel good,” Jaskier pants and Geralt places a cool hand against his forehead. Jaskier leans into the touch, only stable due the arm Geralt has around him </p>
  <p>“You’re burning up,” Geralt says, his brow furrowed, “How long have you felt like this?”</p>
  <p>“Felt this way when I woke up,” Jaskier replies. Heat is pooling in the hollows of his cheeks and he feels almost panicked. “I really don’t feel good,” he says, vision tunneling. </p>
  <p>Geralt curses low under his breath and stands, swinging Jaskier to lay on his back. “You should have said.”</p>
  <p>“You were bleeding,” Jaskier says, but he can’t quite remember why. The sun’s early light is roaring into the room now. Jaskier lets himself float like the sunlit dust. He feels a wet cloth against his brow and a hand rubbing down his arm. Jaskier rolls onto his side, the cloth slipping, and closes his eyes. </p>
  <p>“You better be okay, bard,” Geralt growls, but Jaskier can hear the concern under it, the guilt and panic. He wraps a hand around Geralt’s arm. </p>
  <p>“I’ll be okay, I just need rest.” </p>
  <p>And Geralt lets him, and Jaskier doesn’t question the fact that they were supposed to move on after breakfast.</p>
</div>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Third Degree Burn (Jaskier)</h2></a>
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    <p>In a few days when Geralt asks, Jaskier will say that he didn’t feel it. That the adrenaline, or the huge plumes of smoke and the terrifying realization that he didn’t know where Geralt, or Ciri, or Yennefer were blinded him of the red, puckered skin. It’s a lie, he knows. Because Jaskier felt it. The fire on his sleeve, the desperate dance to put it out and the queasy spike of pain that slid down his spine and rocked his knees when he saw that his top was quite literally melded into his skin. </p><p>He knew. And it terrified him. But he also knew that Geralt and Ciri had been in the tavern when it went up in flames and Yennefer had been around back talking to some merchant for some spell ingredients. He knew he couldn’t see them now, not past the black overtaking the sky like an eclipse. And he thought that it could wait, that this was more important. </p><p>Maybe that’s why when he was already burned, he ran into the tavern, screaming at the top of his lungs for Ciri and Geralt. </p><p>“Over here!” Geralt had called, curled protectively over Ciri, whose face was red. She was coughing as Jaskier ran over, slipping under the overturned table Geralt was crouched behind. He took her in his arms, wincing at the feeling of ninety-eight pounds of weight against his burned forearm. </p><p>“Can you get out?” Jaskier said to Geralt, who was scanning the tavern. For survivors, Jaskier supposed, but the town was barely populated when they had gotten there, and, looking at the bar, Jaskier realized that the barkeep had left an open bottle by a lit flame. That it had been an untimely mistake, one that they would pay for, surely, when they wouldn’t be able to reopen. But one that probably wouldn’t kill anyone. Ciri spasmed in his arms, coughing and curling her face into his shirt and Geralt’s yellow eyes snapped to his. </p><p>“I’ll grab Yen, go out the front. Wait for me by Roach.” </p><p>Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s arm as the witcher went to move. His white hair was speckled with black ash and Jaskier raked his eyes over it, over Geralt’s face and chin, over his lips and his neck and his torso. He seemed unhurt and Jaskier smiled despite the hot panic seeping into him, now that the adrenaline was beginning to fade. “You better make it out of here, you hear me?”</p><p>Geralt’s eyes, as unfeeling as they might seem to an outside observer, turned warm, “Like I’d leave you alone with my daughter, bard.”</p><p>Jaskier had broken into clean air gasping, a smear of white dashing out behind him, and walked to Roach. He was beginning to feel a little woozy, between his burns and the smoke inhalation. He was happy to have a place to put Ciri down. She seemed to be faring the best out of any of them, besides Geralt but Jaskier looked her over regardless. </p><p>“How you doing, kid?”</p><p>“Where’s Geralt?” She asked instead of answering, her blue eyes concerned. With a pang, Jaskier had the painful realization that this child had seen far too much demise for someone her age. </p><p>“He’s just grabbing Yennefer. Drink some water,” he tipped the waterskin against Ciri’s lips and watched as she drank, slowly, the color returning to her cheeks. She had stopped coughing and for that, Jaskier was grateful. </p><p>The heat had yet to leave him, though, and Jaskier’s vision flared black. He felt tiny hands against his face, his back pressed against Roach’s leg. Sounds echoed around him. It wasn’t until Geralt rubbed a closed fist against his chest that he opened his eyes, a headache pulsing behind them. </p><p>“Jaskier?”</p><p>Yennefer was rooting in her bag, collecting bottles. The noise was escalating Jaskier’s headache and he pulled at his hair, “Hurts,” he mumbled. Geralt’s hands were sure as they pulled Jaskier’s arms away, pressing one thumb into the gooey flesh. </p><p>He started, his face turned down so quick that Jaskier’s eyesight blurred for just a moment. “Don’t touch it!” He whined even as Geralt carefully palmed the limb, turning</p><p>“You’re hurt,” it came out like a growl and Jaskier recoiled, thumping his head against Roach’s legs. Geralt quieted, “Why didn’t you tell me?”</p><p>Yennefer saved him from answering. </p><p>“Let me see him,” Yennefer said, pushing Geralt away and dropped a yellow liquid on to his skin. Jaskier’s vision grew dark again as it worked, the skin smoking. He woke to Geralt’s pinched face, hands holding Jaskier’s chin up. </p><p>“Better?”</p><p>“My head still hurts,” Jaskier said, honestly, because anything but the truth would just anger Geralt further.</p><p>“We all need rest, let’s go to the inn,” Yennefer said, quietly, slipping the empty bottle into her bag. Ciri looked frightened next to him and Jaskier smiled at her, wrapping a cool hand around her shoulder. </p><p>“I’m fine, Ciri. Yennefer’s right. We all need rest.”</p><p>Geralt growled and stood, pulling Jaskier up with him, but the gesture was surprisingly gentle. Jaskier looked to his face, seeing the plain confusion hidden under layers of concern and anger. Anger that Jaskier got hurt and hadn’t said anything. But Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to care, not when he valued much more than his own well-being. He was just happy to have all three of them healthy and whole. </p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Temporary Blindness (Geralt)</h2></a>
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        <p>Jaskier is a light sleeper and he’s no stranger to getting woken in the middle of the night. It’s usually the wind, and occasionally a bird of some kind, or a snake or mouse, or whatever other wildlife decides to visit his bedroll. Never has he been woken by Geralt before, and definitely not by what seems to be a nightmare. </p>
        <p>“Fuck, I’m,” Geralt swallows hard, his hands trembling as they run through his hair. Jaskier suddenly remembers Ciri’s account of Geralt, almost delirious with fever and poison, when he’d found her, having wandered off the back of a farmer’s truck who’d been nice enough to help him. </p>
        <p>Geralt’s cheeks aren’t flushed right now, though, despite the pinched, panicked look to them, and Jaskier sits up and moves toward Geralt’s hunched figure. He’s whimpering, Jaskier can tell now, the soft sound petering out in the slight breeze of the mid-July air. </p>
        <p>“Geralt? Are you okay?” Jaskier crouches by him, keeping his hands to himself. He’s never had to wake Geralt, not by touch or anything else, but he’d take his chances fighting a dragon over startling his companion. Geralt’s eyes swing wide, going past Jaskier’s shoulder. His cheeks are wet and his hands still tremble even as Geralt pushes them harshly into the ground. “Can you see?” Geralt asks, the words breaking. </p>
        <p>Jaskier leans back, his brow furrowed and chews on his bottom lip. “See what Geralt?”</p>
        <p>“Anything,” a thick swallow, Geralt’s eyes shuttering closed as his breath stalls for a second. Jaskier leaps into action then, placing a slender hand against Geralt’s chest. “Christ, Ger, breathe.”</p>
        <p>“I can’t see,” is the panicked reply and Jaskier’s own breathing stutters. “Like anything?”</p>
        <p>Geralt glares in Jaskier’s direction, but the lack of coordination is unnerving. Jaskier buries his hands in the back of Geralt’s hair, looking for a bump. “Did you hit your head?”</p>
        <p>Geralt swallows and the sound is grating. Jaskier places one palm over Geralt’s quivering hand, “Hey, we’ll figure this out. I’m sure we can contact Yennefer in the morning, she’ll find a way to fix this.”</p>
        <p>“What if she can’t? A blind witcher is as good as a dead one,” Geralt growls, and his mouth twists into a frown. </p>
        <p>Jaskier sits back, pressing himself against Geralt’s arm. “What?” Jaskier asks, breathless. “Why would you say that?”</p>
        <p>“You know why our eyes are yellow, right?”</p>
        <p>Jaskier nods, his head close enough to Geralt that he’s sure the witcher can feel the movement. Nobody had bothered to explain just how the yellow pigment helped improve a witcher’s eyesight, but he knows it’s a part of the process. </p>
        <p>“If I can’t hunt, Jaskier, then what is there for me?”</p>
        <p>The question hangs in the air and Jaskier drags his foot through the dirt. “You have us,” he swallows, pausing to suck in a calming breath, “Ciri, Yennefer and me. Roach, too.”</p>
        <p>Geralt huffs, but his hands are no longer shaking and he’s taking more even breaths. “Good that’ll do if I can’t bring in coin.”</p>
        <p>Jaskier shakes his head, “Yennefer can sell potions and become a healer. And I can start performing again.”</p>
        <p>Geralt lays on his back and Jaskier follows, filling the hollowed out edge of Geralt’s body. “Besides, we’re getting ahead of ourselves, because you are not going to be blind forever.” Something clicks in Jaskier’s mind, the beast they’d fought two days ago, the sting Geralt suffered to his ankle. The way neither one of them expected Geralt to have no adverse effects from it, and the surprise when after twenty-four hours nothing had happened. “You think this is the Manticore cub venom?”</p>
        <p>Jaskier can feel Geralt’s heartbeat pick up and he cradles the base of Geralt’s skull in one palm. “Possibly.”</p>
        <p>“Yennefer will definitely have an antidote for it then.”</p>
        <p>Geralt doesn’t answer. The sun still hasn’t risen so Jaskier drags the thin blanket over top the both of them. “Think you’re calm enough to sleep?”</p>
        <p>Geralt just curls further into him, and Jaskier waits until the man’s breathing smooths out before retiring himself. </p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Concussion and Fever; Bitten and Dealing with Venom (Jaskier and Geralt mega-whump)</h2></a>
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    <p>“It looks worse than it feels,” Jaskier says, with wide-blown eyes, one pupil pinpricked and the other swelling to cover half of his iris. A small gash lines the top right of Jaskier’s forehead, and it is steadily pumping out a small stream of blood, slicking down Jaskier’s cheek and running to drip off of his chin. He looks a mess if Geralt had to describe it, and it’s only through years of Witcher training that Geralt stills the instinctive twitch in his hands to help. </p><p>“You’re not coming with me looking like that,” Geralt says instead, gritting his teeth as his stomach swoops low. He doesn’t want to do this hunt alone if he’s being honest. This beast is best slain by a two-partner team. One playing the role of bait while the other hides with a weapon out. Venom-slicked teeth aren’t to be messed around with, but Geralt has done it alone before and he will do it again. There’s no amount of coin in the realm that will force him to use Jaskier like this, concussed and bloody, making sense but just half a day away from a frizzy short-term memory and a possible fever. </p><p>Jaskier, for his part, blushes a deep red, and sputters, his hands flying out by head in his attempt to argue with Geralt. But the movement unbalances him and its only Geralt’s quick reflexes that spare him hitting the ground. “Yennefer is in the town over, I’ll send Roach and she can look after you while I hunt the beast.”</p><p>“What do you expect me to do until then?” </p><p>Geralt fiddles with his sword, wicking away the dust and grime with a cloth. He has his back to the bard, trying to tamp down images of Jaskier going to sleep and never waking up. That’s a myth, right? “Rest.” The word comes out like an order but it sends a flutter across Geralt’s chest. </p><p>Jaskier huffs and Geralt half-turns, sending a gentle look at his companion, who notices the tilt in Geralt’s yellow eyes. The fight goes out of his shoulders and he nods, moving to climb into bed. “If you don’t return--”</p><p>“I will,” Geralt says, a quick promise that he’s made many times before. </p><p>Jaskier glares at him, the gesture dripping right off of Geralt’s stoic stance, “If you don’t return, I’m sending in the calvary. You know how Yennefer gets when she’s worried.” Jaskier tops it off with a look, and Geralt glowers, baring his teeth slightly, before turning to leave.”</p><p>“I’ll be back.”</p>
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<p></p></div><p>By nightfall, the beast is slain and Geralt is limping his way back into the inn. A dusty moon crowns the sky, spreading its silvery light across the land sparingly. The village is a collection of farmers and day-workers and Geralt is grateful for the shocking lack of an audience as he stumbles about. </p><p>He’s bleeding, a tooth embedded in his forearm. The venom is sending sharp, hot pains up into his shoulder, bleeding across to his jaw and spreading a numb coolness across it. He knows this venom, seen it injected into other Witchers during the trials to stabilize the mutation. It’s something a witcher is meant to survive, if barely. He knows he’ll pass it through, but he’s not looking forward to the hours of raging fever or the unbearable pain. He’s praying he’ll skip the nightmares, as well, but that dream is futile as his vision sparks gray, sending him to his knees, as a scene of Jaskier and Yennefer being gutted plays out across his eyes. </p><p>He speeds into the inn, clambering up the stairs and lands in the room he shares with Jaskier. For a panicked moment, he thinks the bard may not be breathing, and he remembers the concussion, the worry that Jaskier may have fallen into a coma. He’s burning, can feel the heat slicking down his back and pooling in the soles of his feet, every step painful, but he slings his sword down with a clatter and stumbles to Jaskier’s bed, palming the bard’s head. </p><p>Jaskier blinks silver eyes up at him, “Hey.” he says, startled, and sits up. He lights a match, waking up the candle on the night-table. </p><p>Geralt’s vision is wavering, Jaskier’s face bleeding out into a mass of pinks and peaches, fading into the room. He wheezes, his breathing constricted and Jaskier pales, sitting up fully.</p><p>“Are you okay?” Geralt asks, <em>slurs</em> really, because suddenly his mouth is dry and he can barely get a syllable out. Jaskier shakes his head, his mouth pinched. </p><p>“Gods, Geralt. You look like a ghoul. And you’re asking if I’m alright?”</p><p>Geralt nods, regretting the movement immediately as his head swims. There are twin spots of pink high on Jaskier’s cheekbones and Geralt can smell the cooling sweat on him. “You have a fever.”</p><p>“How do you know that?” The comment is whispered under Jaskier’s breath, but all too soon he’s on the ground next to Geralt and taking the man’s head in his hands. “It’s a byproduct of the concussion, but yours is not.”</p><p>He shifts, and finally spots the large, shiny tooth sticking out of Geralt’s arm. Jaskier pulls the limb closer, turning it to spot where it’s pierced the pale, thin flesh. The blood that seeps out looks almost burnt, shimmering black around the edges. “You got bitten. Gods--” Jaskier swipes a hand across his forehead, his eyes shuttered, “Isn’t this the beast that is highly venomous?”</p><p>Geralt breaths in, feeling the air get stuck somewhere in his chest, where it swirls and doesn’t move. He feels lightheaded, too hot, and unnervingly numb. “Yes,” he manages and watches Jaskier pale even further before his own vision flares gray. </p>
<hr/><p>Geralt wakes to a wet cloth clinging to his forehead and a bandaged arm. Outside, the sun has taken residence at the highest point in the sky. Geralt shivers, pushing down the dreams he’s had--of Ciri being taken from him, of Yenner losing to the Djinn, of Jaskier falling off that cliff where they’d searched for the dragon--and trying to remember where he is and what happened. </p><p>The door to his room creaks and he shoots up, hand instinctively grabbing for a weapon that isn’t there. But the person who enters is Yennefer, long hair curling down her back. In her hands is a tray of potions. She stops when she sees him sitting up and smiles at him. “Feeling better, I hope.”</p><p>Geralt grunts, feeling something swim its way back to the front of his mind. Jaskier’s uneven pupils. He feels his pulse begin to race. “Where’s Jaskier?”</p><p>Yennefer huffs, setting the tray down. “He’s resting. I slipped him a draught in his tea after he refused to leave. Even with a moderate concussion and vertigo, he didn’t want to leave you alone.”</p><p>“He’s okay, though?”</p><p>Yennefer places her hands on her hips. “Yes, though I would appreciate it if you would stop using me as a traveling healer. I do have a job, you know.”</p><p>Geralt gives her an easy grin and watches as she slowly melts. “Yes, well, drink these then.” He’s handed half a dozen bottles and downs them. Inwardly, he curses the taste, but he won’t give Yennefer the satisfaction of seeing him wince. </p><p>As he finishes the last bottle, Jaskier wanders in, sleep-ruffled, eyes shimmering with concern. “Geralt,” he greets, sitting down. </p><p>He looks worse, eyes glassy and cheeks pink with fever. Geralt eyes Yennefer. She shrugs, resentfully, “He caught something from the innkeeper, it’ll run its course. I’m not a miracle worker.”</p><p>“Thank you Yen, really,” Jaskier says in that soft way of his. Yennefer rolls her eyes, but gathers her bag, mumbling a goodbye. Geralt does nothing but stare as she leaves and secretly eyes Jaskier. </p><p>The bard settles down in a chair by Geralt’s bed, and pulls his bandaged arm over to look at. He doesn’t say anything but Geralt can read everything through the haunted look in Jaskier’s eyes and the slight bulge of unshed tears that line his bottom lashes. </p><p>Geralt wants to say something, anything to comfort him. But he’s never been one to do so before, and he still doesn’t have the vocabulary. Instead, he dips the leftover cloth in the basin by his bedside and drapes it across the back of Jaskier’s neck. </p><p>Jaskier laughs, his adam’s apple bobbing, “We’re quite the mess, aren’t we?”</p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Completely Out Of It (Jaskier)</h2></a>
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    <p>Jaskier stumbles, then takes a knee, his head muted and quiet in the hot arid winds of mid-June. He clasps a handful of dust, feeling it slip through his fingers and tilts his head upward, his nose pointed to the sun at its high point. </p><p>He feels odd. Like he’s not quite there and his body shakes, shivering, his arms going limp underneath him. The dirt is like silk on his cheek and he heaves out a breath, sending a cloud of it bursting across his face and forehead. Geralt steps off of Roach, his footsteps sending vibrations down through the very soul of Jaskier’s body. </p><p>He’s hot, he thinks. Or else too tired to understand his temperature and he feels himself panting, laying there, eyes squinted against the too-bright sunlight. Geralt flips him, saying…something. The words like mayflies in Jaskier’s ear. He lets his eyes close, and mumbles out Geralt’s name, reaching up for him. </p><p>“Jaskier, what’s the matter?” Geralt says, and Jaskier can make out the words this time. Deep and burnt with worry. </p><p>“I don’t know,” Jaskier says, or at least slurs, keeping his eyes closed. He misses the worry that flits plain as day across Geralt’s face. He can feel himself being moved, dragged over. </p><p>The harsh warmth fades off, and Jaskier sighs in this new cool environment. “Can you drink?”</p><p>Jaskier can’t answer that. He’s trying to figure out what it means. Drink? Why would he need to drink? He feels the slippery opening of a canteen pressed against his lips and he opens his mouth instinctively when it begins to tip. Geralt’s hand is wrapped around the back of his head. </p><p>Where is he? How did he get here? He’s so hot, boiling, and he wants to remove his clothes but he can’t even move his arm. “Can’t move,” Jaskier says, because he thinks it may be important.</p><p>“You’re overheating, Jaskier. I need you to drink this.” The bottle again. Jaskier obeys. </p><p>He feels a breeze spread across his cheeks, hot but there, and he squirms as the tips of his hair tickle his forehead. </p><p>Geralt’s hands spread a layer of water over his skin and Jaskier moans at how good it feels. The cold seeping deep into his skin and muscles, chasing away the wretched heat. “You’re going to be okay,” Geralt seems to be saying. </p><p>Jaskier doesn’t understand why he needs the reassurance. He drinks more water when the canteen reappears and drifts, feeling hot and tired and heavy. Hearing Geralt’s voice in his ear but not understanding the meaning.</p><p>He comes back to himself, slowly. Opening his eyes. Finishing the canteen. Eating some berries that Geralt gives him, cut with a hunter’s knife down the middle. His throat feels clogged, suddenly, and he realizes that its because Geralt rarely shows that he… well, cares, this much at least. Cares that Jaskier makes it to see the next dawn. And it’s nice, he thinks, to see it. To see Geralt give up all his water, strip Jaskier down to his kickers to try and press some sanity into him. Heat exhaustion and all. </p><p>He’s sloping downward toward lucidity after hitting the crest of delusion, and Jaskier wraps a hand around Geralt’s wrist, stopping him. He wets his lips, pleasantly surprised to see he has enough saliva. “Thank you,” he says. </p><p>Geralt’s eyes turn warm with relief but he doesn’t say anything and Jaskier doesn’t press. Instead, he lets Geralt continue with his slow ministrations as he tries to reclaim his logic. </p><p>And if he feels a little more loved after this, well whose to say they can prove it?</p>
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<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Insecure and Feverish (Jaskier)</h2></a>
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    <p>Jaskier often feels too fragile in his own skin. It comes with the territory, he presumes, of following a Witcher.  Someone who doesn’t have to sleep eight hours a night, or eat three times a day or drink enough water to not feel dizzy and weak for hours. </p><p>He gets hot and tired. Hungry and exhausted. Geralt just…doesn’t and it gets lonely. He feels like he has to bury himself only to dig his humanity back up whenever Geralt needs it. When they need a song for coin or morale. When they need to convince someone to help them. When Ciri needs a little more than three words to cheer up.</p><p>He feels it tenfold today, under the bronze July sky. The sun a hawk circling around Jaskier, sweeping low to irritate his eyes. He blames his unsteady perception of it on his headache and blames the chills on his body’s over-excited attempts to cool him down. He’s not too far off but it’s a deep-set fever and not the beginnings of heat exhaustion. Regardless, he hides the ache of his muscles and the way his throat scratches as he walks. </p><p>It isn’t until he collapses that he realizes he’s gotten worse. Geralt’s crouched over him, brows thick and furrowed over narrowed yellow eyes. In the background, Jaskier can hear sniffling. </p><p>“Jaskier?” Geralt places a tentative hand on his brow and Jaskier can feel the wince that crosses the man’s face, it pulls that hard at his usual smoothed features. </p><p>“I’m okay,” Jaskier says, wetting his lips with his tongue. They’re cracked and the thirst he’s felt since the morning comes back with a vengeance. “Can you get me some water?”</p><p>Geralt nods, slowly, taking the canteen from Ciri, whose blue eyes are red-rimmed. Jaskier sits up or tries to, at least, reaching out to comfort. He’s drilled into the ground by a dizzy spell before he can accomplish that and the loss cracks his heart in two. He feels pressure build-up behind his eyes and he swipes tiredly at them before they can leak. </p><p>Geralt’s still looking at him like he’s lost all sanity as he passes him the water. Jaskier dodges the gaze and drinks, trembling in the sand. </p><p>Geralt’s breaths are rough in the heat. He shifts, going from crouching to sitting, watching Jaskier with a calculating eye. Like he’s unsure what to make of this, how to proceed with Jaskier’s symptoms. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says once he’s done. </p><p>Geralt plugs up the canteen, handing it back to Ciri. He presses the back of his hand once again to one of Jaskier’s cheeks and Jaskier feels so awful he can’t stop the instinct to lean into it. What a pathetic little person he is. </p><p>“You’re sick,” Geralt says after a moment. Jaskier takes the time to swallow all the feelings of inadequacy whole. If there’s anything that Geralt has taught him, it’s to show no weakness. </p><p>Of course, he belies this by nodding at Geralt, admitting to being sick. Admitting to being weak. But his vision is beginning to swim and the thought of even attempting to stand threatens to make him faint. </p><p>“I need help,” he admits and Geralt takes him seriously for once. Maybe it’s because Jaskier may complain about the walking and the hours and really just Geralt’s demeanor in general but he never complains about being ill unless he feels on the wrong side of death. </p><p>“We’re almost to the town. We’ll find an inn. It would be nice to let Ciri explore a city for once,” Geralt says before placing a steadying arm around Jaskier’s back to maneuver him into standing.</p>
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<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Panic Attack (Jaskier)</h2></a>
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    <p>Jaskier doesn’t understand how Geralt isn’t panicking more. How the man is sitting there stoically with a hand on Jaskier’s back, rubbing up and down as Jaskier gasps and wheezes. </p><p>He claws at his throat, trying to pin down whatever is choking him, trying to make the sensation stop. To make the fear dripping down his spine from infecting his brain stem and paralyzing his larynx or whatever is supposed to let him breathe.<em> He can’t breathe, he just can’t. </em></p><p>“Relax, Jaskier,” Geralt says, softly, eyes a light topaz in the creamy afternoon light. Jaskier screws his eyes shut and chuckles, wondering when he lost his mind enough to not know when he’s speaking out loud or not. </p><p>The hand on his back peels away and Jaskier chokes harshly on his last breath, Geralt cursing and replacing it, pressing a canteen to Jaskier’s mouth. Great, he’d pulled away to get Jaskier a drink and he’d freaked out even more. </p><p>He whines deeply and pushes his head back against the rocks behind him, feeling the back of his skull connected with granite. Geralt’s hand becomes taught, stopping Jaskier from trying that again. </p><p>“You’re alright, take a drink. Name five things that you can see.”</p><p>Jaskier whimpers but obeys, taking a sip, trying not to inhale it as his lungs contract, trying to tell him that they’re not getting enough. Greedy bastards. He struggles to open his eyes but when he does he can see the studded gloves Geralt wears discarded by the fire, the satchel that rests on Roach when they ride, the canteen in his hands, Geralt’s messy hair and a fire that’s just gone out. He lists this out to Geralt, his breathing giving only an inch. </p><p>“Good, that’s good, now name five things you can hear.”</p><p>Jaskier doesn’t understand how Geralt can see him like this, how he can weather these attacks from time to time during their travels. They always scare Jaskier shitless, spinning his mind with all the horrific times they could come on and immobilize them. How it could happen during a hunt, or when Geralt is gravely injured, or when Jaskier is trying to earn coin while singing. And yet the fact that Geralt will stay with him when they happen gives him a lot of hope too. </p><p>His breathing is coming down, and Geralt untangle himself from Jaskier to get the fire going again and to start a warm stew. Jaskier lets his eyes drift shut, exhausted. </p>
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<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Hallucinations (Jaskier)</h2></a>
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  <p>By the time Jaskier realizes that it’s warm, the fire is everywhere. it’s creeping up the door to the room in they're in, thick black plumes snaking underneath it like the disembodied spirit of a demon. The glare of it, red and imposing, reflects on the window overlooking the square where people congregate in various kinds of sleepwear. Jaskier looks over and Geralt is gone. </p>
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  <p>He curses, flinging off the blanket and grabbing his loot. The fire continues to inch forward. He has no other choice but to go through the window. It’s only a story to fall, only cobblestone roads, only a slight chance that he’ll break his neck. He’s shaking, he realizes, and coughing too. He slams onto his knees, beginning to crawl. Smoke rises, doesn’t it? Does it even matter? </p>
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  <p>He has no time to consider whether Geralt has anything here, whether he should grab anything. His witcher left him to battle this alone and he doesn’t have a manual. He’s lucky he even woke up. He swipes a hot limb over his forehead, more smearing around the sweat than doing anything with it, and reaches the window, thick and glossy. He needs to break it with something. </p>
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  <p>He looks around, clutching the lute like an infant to his chest, and lands on the lamp on Geralt’s nightstand. he picks it up, the iron base heavy in his grip and throws it, an arm in front of his eyes. </p>
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  <p>The glass shatters and Jaskier advances, readying himself to throw himself out of it. He takes a breath, then two, and jumps. </p>
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  <p>“Jaskier!” A voice, louder than the fire itself, roars into his ear and Jaskier jerks backward, blinking.</p>
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  <p>There’s an arm wrapped tight around his, pulling him backward from the window. There are no longer any people in the square, lingering, no longer the harsh glare of a blazing fire. The window is intact and there’s a shape, a person, behind him. Jaskier turns to face him, noting that it’s Geralt. </p>
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  <p>“Come here, are you hurt?” Jaskier’s hand throbs and he looks down at it, the flesh red and swelling. He nods creakily. </p>
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  <p>Geralt wraps a warm palm around it and guides Jaskier to the bed. “What did you see?” </p>
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  <p>Jaskier startles at the question, absorbed so much by the tender way Geralt his holding his hand and forcing it to uncurl. The bandages he’s wrapping around the knuckles. He cannot even say when they got here, he can’t remember. “The room was on fire,” Jaskier says, quietly. </p>
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  <p>Geralt nods, eyes bright with worry and guilt. “Probably just a nightmare, but I’ll give you more elixir anyway.”</p>
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  <p>“Elixir?” Geralt pales and Jaskier wishes he hadn’t asked. He feels dizzy and leans back, almost falling onto the bed before Geralt grabs his shoulders and helps him level back slowly. The movement is practiced, as if he’s been doing it for days. Jaskier’s mind feels cloudy and barely there but he roots around the squishy crevices anyway, coming up with wispy memories of a witch and a curse and a fever. </p>
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  <p>A fever he still very much feels. He shivers, despite the fact that his limbs still feel like they’re close to a fire. “I don’t feel well,” Jaskier gasps, feeling hotter every instant. He drags in a pained breath, and shifts on the bed, the feeling of the sheets on his skin nearly unbearable. Geralt lets out a pained whimper, wipes a thumb across Jaskier’s brow before moving down to pull at his bottom lip. </p>
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  <p>“I know, Jaskier,” the cool lip of a bottle is pressed into the soft center of Jaskier’s lips and he sips when it is turned upward. The liquid tastes of ginger and lemon, possibly tea gone cold. He drinks it anyway until Geralt moves it away. “Yennefer said the fever would break in another day. Rest will help.”</p>
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  <p>Jaskier doesn’t understand how he could possibly sleep like this, burning from the inside out. Maybe was wrong before and the fire wasn’t in the room but inside him all along. He flips onto his side, curling into a ball. Geralt rubs circles on his back and Jaskier is surprised to find that the movement is quite fluid. </p>
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  <p>Who is this man? Who is this version of Geralt who has learned to take care of him? What has Jaskier done, what has Geralt seen to make him this way?</p>
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  <p>He wants to find out but he feels as if he’s melting into the bed and he lets his eyes slipped close. It’s easier to fall into sleep that way, easier to escape the pain. </p>
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